The Cabin at Big Sur
by CTMoss
Summary: How Schmidt decided Nick Miller was his best friend. A super-late entry to MayaLala's Cabin fic contest


The Cabin at Big Sur

I know some people (read: Nicholas Miller) think it's weird that I have to have a specific label and place for the things in my life, but really, it's just the best way to organize, you know? Things have to be in their place. You think it was easy, successfully pledging to two fraternities? And they may have mocked me at first, but those hippies in theatre tech sure appreciated my initiative in applying for permits at Student Affairs when we got dragged in front of the Chancellor for our not-really-impromptu, marketing-related flash mob. Some of the more chemically-inclined in our crew decided to take of most off their clothes in the middle of the chorus of "Day by Day." You'd think the hippies would know _Godspell_ wasn't _Hair_, and there was no nudity in our production, but you'd be wrong.

So it was important to me that I decided on who my best friend was by Anglo-Saxon Privilege break. Or Christmas break, as my un-PC monster of a roommate is determined to call it as we both run up and down our dorm room, packing stuff up for our respective holiday trips. Nick is always running late when he's packing for trips home, because his student assistant job and paid accounting internship both require him to schedule leaves in advance, and sometimes it takes them up until the last minute to approve his off-days, so he never knows when he's leaving. In fact, he's barely been in the past few weeks. I think he's researching something big – he always has to scrub out ink from his face in the mornings because he keeps falling asleep on the balance sheets he's studying. Which he then drools on. For a big ol' stoner with a mustache and long hair, Nick works really hard, which I kind of admire about him.

Working hard doesn't leave a lot of time for him to do laundry, though. He's teasing me as he sorts through his shirts by sniffing them for freshness. So gross. "What's the hold-up, man? Usually you're packed and ready to go the week before the break."

"To be honest, Nick, I'm kind of dragging my heels."

"Well, if I were vacationing with the One-Letter-Away Club, I'd put it off as long as I can, too," he cackles. The One-Letter-Away Club is Nick's oh-so-adorably derisive nickname for Tucker and Hunt, who, along with Benjamin (who is left out of the One-Letter-Away Club because Nick can't think of anything scatological that goes with Benjamin. "He has no nickname, Schmidtty. That's so _weird_."), make up my fraternity circle at the Pi Sigs. He haaaaates them, which is why I need to decide on my bestie soon: the guys are insisting I move into the frat house so they don't have to put up with Nick's glares, but I'm not entirely convinced I'll be at home there. Not that I'm at completely home with Miller the Slovenly Stoner, mind you.

Thing is, when I talked to Nick about it, he just laughed in my face. Much as he's doing now. "Actually, no, dummy, I'm going to the cabin at Big Sur this year. With my dad," I add, which wipes the smile off his face but good.

"What the hell, Schmidt? You're not out of options here," he says, concerned. "You can totally bunk at my house. Bonus: we're taking the direct way this time. I don't have to drop Amelia off at Florida."

"No, I have to go. My dad wants me to bond with my stepmom and my stepbrothers," I explain. "I tried to get out of it, but as long as my trust fund's under his control, I can't really say no, you know?"

"Ok, Schmidtty, it's not that I don't like your dad…" He shakes his head, and I bet he's preparing to argue for the wonders of Christmas in Chicago. (Nick's good at arguing, or at least bargaining people down to his level. He leveraged helping the dorm administrator with his taxes – something he's done for his family since he was a kid - with our occupancy of the room with the porch. It's a favorite hangout of sorority girls too drunk to make the walk home, and my chief method of meeting women. No dividends yet, but fingers crossed.)

I hold my hand up. "No, no, it's going to be okay. My stepmom hates me, but Owen and Dan are great little kids, as long as they're not trying to poke my belly. Or rub my belly while trying to make wishes. They're getting real creative with the fat jokes now that they're in grade school." I smile, doing my best to make sure it reaches my eyes. "I'll be fine, man."

* * *

To be fair, Nick's dislike of, and wariness towards, my dad comes directly from the stories he hears from me. How he left my mom and me right after my bar mitzvah. How we were blindsided by his remarriage, and his move to California, less than a year after the divorce was finalized. How he hardly ever kept contact aside from alimony and the checks sent from the trust fund my granddad set up before he died. How I was blindsided again when we got the Christmas card from my dad, Claire, and my twin stepbrothers, who I didn't even know were born. On the upside, jalapeno poppers were invented that year, so really, who's the loser here?

I've convinced myself that Dad wants to mend bridges this time, because he's never invited me to a holiday before, and now I'm getting an entire week. But when he shows up at our dorm-room door, he's stern as ever. "Are you ready, boy? We still have to pick up Claire and the kids, and I don't want to drive to the cabin at night," he intones, refusing to even sit down. I cleaned the whole time after I packed. Even Nick's side. And the old twat refuses to even sit down.

"Hello, Mr. Schmidt. You look…good." Nick's attempts at small talk with older people are hilarious to me. I know he rehearses them in his head all the time, because sometimes he practices out loud when he thinks I'm sleeping.

"Hello, Nicholas. Is that poncho…hemp?" Unnecessary superciliousness on Dad. Storm clouds on Miller. I decide to high-tail it out of there before Nick's temper flares.

"Ok, buddy, I'll see you next year. Say hi to your ma for me, and if you're dad's there, kick his ass for me," I say as I lean in for a hug.

He looks offended, but shakes it off as he hugs me back. Nick doesn't like being touched, but I suppose he knows I need a hug right now. "Ok, I'll call ya. You're staying at the cabin in Big Sur, right? The one near the river? The one we spent the last week of summer break at?"

I nod as I remember something. "We replaced that door, right?"

"Yep. Last time I let Winston drunk-dare me to use a door as a white-water raft, that's for damn sure. Hey, can I borrow a necktie?"

* * *

It takes longer than anticipated to pick the rest of the family, who were equal parts not ready (Claire) and understandably mutinous about leaving for the great outdoors on Christmas (the twins). Which was why we leave the next morning, and get to the cabin at about 10 AM. I surreptitiously check for any damage we may not have replaced from the summer, but it seems clear. Whew.

The second we try to settle in, though, chaos starts. I have to point out here that the cabin's in a gated area, with its own groundskeeper and security crew, which is why it's rather lavishly appointed, in keeping with my dad's tastes. The man who organized my $40,000 bar mitzvah can only be satisfied with a top-of-the-line kitchen, antique stone fireplace, hardwood furniture, his own backup generator, and enough comforts of home that I don't even consider this roughing it. And I have a very low tolerance for roughing it.

But it's like the cabin develops a will of its own the moment we step in. We plug the refrigerator in, and the fuse box blows and kills the power to every single outlet in the house. The generator is out of fuel, which could have evaporated and cannot possibly be our fault from the summer because we didn't even touch the thing, Dad, I swear. Claire, annoyed, leans into the china cabinet, which collapses the second her hand lands on it. Owen and Dan get poison ivy and start wailing. I didn't even know there was poison ivy on the estate. We have a groundskeeper, for crying out loud.

I try calling Nick for help in fixing the fuses, because it turns out the ability to make home repairs doesn't run in the Schmidt family at all. No answer. Either his phone is on silent, or his line is dead. I forgot to pack the car charger for him, so it's probably that again.

As the groceries we brought in need refrigeration, I get elected to go back to town to get diesel for the generator, while my dad badgers the groundskeeper for an electrician and Claire cleans up the broken crockery. It's on the drive out, out of the corner of my eye, that I could swear I saw a beat-up red hatchback hidden far into one of the bluffs.

* * *

I try calling Nick again as they fill up the fuel cans at the gas station. I connect this time. "Hey, man, how's it going in Chicago?"

"Ugh, it's the worst. Jamie's mad at me because his grades aren't good enough for college, so I've been mollifying him since I got home. Like it's my fault? I also have to go bail out my dad for selling counterfeit Bears merchandise. It's Christmas, goddamn it," he rants, while I listen for wave sounds. Something, anything, that could prove my roomie followed me to the cabin. "How's your passel of idiots?"

"Oh, it's going to crap, but we're not there yet. So you haven't been by Big Sur today? Because I could have sworn I saw your car near the cabin."

"Nah, man, I haven't even had a second to myself. And you know your property has a security staff, right? It's not like I can just drive on in. By the way, did you call me earlier?"

"Yeah. You know anything about fixing fuses? For, like, an entire house?"

* * *

I schlep back to the cabin with twenty gallons of diesel, a box of fuses, and very detailed instructions on how to replace them. And by very detailed, I mean I wrote down everything Nick said that wasn't "Ya dumbass." I feel very confident when I cross the threshold to find Dad trying to calm down a hysterically sobbing Claire. Owen and Dan were nowhere to be found, which was a relief: I ate a carton of ice cream on the way down, and was still too full not to hurl if one of them launched themselves at my midsection. What, the ice cream was going to melt anyway.

"Where are the twins? Why is Claire crying?"

"Son, you better sit down." This must be serious. He never called me son before. Claire disengages from him as her crying settles into hiccups.

"What's going on?" I say as I sit down. He takes the seat beside me on the sofa, handing a manila envelope to me as he settles.

He sighs as if he's about to unload a heavy burden. "Son, you know how the next part of your trust fund is set to mature when you turn 21 next year, right?" I nod. "Well, you see, we – Claire and the kids and I – we've been living off the interest on that fund instead of allowing it to roll into the principal the way it should have. And," he sighs again, "I've also been in violation of the trust since…well, I suppose your mother's told you that you receive trust checks twice a year, and child support checks every month?"

I nod.

"Your trust checks are supposed to be quarterly, but I re-allocated the other two payouts for your monthly child support until you turned 18. Which was also in violation of your trust." His face is gray. "I lied to you and your mother."

I sure as heck didn't know what to say at this point, so I went with the default: a question. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"There was a young man from your grandfather's audit group who came up to the cabin today. He brought proof of the - shall we say - irregularities, which you now have in that envelope I gave you. I've been told to set things right with you, or he goes to the board of Father's trust." He looks terrified. "Son, I'm really sorry. I know I've disappointed you, but I was stuck. Claire has needs. The boys have needs. And our investments have really devalued since the Asian stock market crash. So if you could find a way to forgive me…" His eyes snap into focus. "I will make this right, son. I will."

He leans in for a hug, but it's a hug I don't need, so I slide sideways and off the sofa. I open the envelope and start rifling through the contents. "What did the investigator say his name was?"

"Julius Pepperwood." Hm. Must be a new accountant. That name never shows up on my checks.

* * *

Turns out that part of the reason Dad wanted me to vacation with him during the break was so that he could woo me to his side before breaking the story to me. Eventually, Dad and I hammered it out: He'd pay me back the money he salted away from my trust fund, with interest, and I'll keep schtum. Apparently, his indiscretions are technically fraud, and if I reported the malversations and my grandfather's board were to pursue charges, he could go to jail. Family court would also be on his back. In addition, if there are any emergencies, I'll let them borrow off the interest of the fund, as long as they pay me back. But they're living on a budget now. I think it'll be good for Dad and Claire.

I know I really caved on this one, but it's fine: a trust fund's a great parachute, but a man's got to make his own way in the world. I don't care if I have to live with roommates after I graduate: I'm only touching that money when I have to.

And look, forgiving them went to a good end – it actually got Claire to stop sniping at me, and I finally got to bond with the twins. Who aren't that bad, really. I think they're maturing. I even managed to fancy-fix the fuse box, at least until the electrician came in two days later. He said I did a good job. I've also asked Dad to start calling me Schmidt now. ("Just Schmidt? You have a perfectly fine first name." "Yes, Dad. Just Schmidt. Not Schmidtty. Just Schmidt. It's a thing.") All in all, a surprisingly satisfying Anglo-Saxon Privilege break. (No, I am not giving up on that phrase.)

* * *

I drag my suitcase and a couple of shopping bags back into the dorm room. I'm exhausted and sleepy, but I jolt awake when I see a clean-cut dude unpacking on Nick's bed. It takes a while for me to realize that The Unpacker was Nick.

"What's up, haircut? I almost didn't recognize you." I say in greeting.

"Hey, ya idiot, welcome back! How was vacation? Did it get better?" He gets something from his bag and hands it to me. "Thanks for the tie, by the way."

I stare at the tie. I look up, and see Nick tossing his white dress shirt into his laundry hamper - his one and only dress shirt, kept on a hanger, covered in a big plastic bag, only emerging for his scholarship dinners and internship interviews - and the pieces fall into place. Nick - doofy, stoned, relentless-and-scary-when-focused Nick - was Julius Pepperwood. He's done some long-lead digging on my dad, if the balance sheets he'd been studying in the lead-up to vacation were any proof. And I bet he managed to sweet-talk his way into the gated village in Big Sur to sabotage the cabin as a back-up, so I could be free from my passive-aggressive stepfamily early. Which means that _was_ his car I saw in the bluffs. The idiot gave up part of his Christmas break – and his hair, and whatever that is that passes for his facial topiary, so he could pass for an eagle-eyed junior accountant - for me.

"Oh, yeah. We had a little issue with my trust fund…" I let the sentence peter out, trying to give him an opening so he could crow about his most elaborate prank ever. Hell, I'm ready to applaud.

"Oh no! Is it bad? Did you own his ass?" he asks and sits down, all excited. "You gotta tell me all about it."

So I tell him. And I wait for him to start bragging. But he says nothing, apart from slapping me on the back with a "Good on ya, kid," after I finish the story. I don't understand why he didn't take credit for - in his words - owning my dad's ass, but yeah, I pretty much decided that whatever happened, Nick Miller was the best friend any guy could ever have. Look out, world. Nick Miller, magnificent bastard, is my BFF.

I'm not saying it out loud, though. It's Nick. It'll get weird.

* * *

"Hey look," he says later, as we were getting the last of our stuff unpacked, "don't worry about your dad's screw-ups. Worse comes to worst, my folks transferred the title for the house in Chicago to me a couple years ago. Ya know, cause I was paying the mortgage anyway. Your family blows off your trust fund, you can live in Chicago with me. And Jamie. I don't think that idiot's ever leaving home." Nick claps a hand on my shoulder, as earnest as I've ever seen him. "I know you can't help letting people push you around, but you gotta push back sometimes, kid. You can't be sweet little Schmidtty forever. You'll get eaten alive. I worry about you."

"Thanks, man. I'll remember that." I grin at Nick unreservedly as I take a box out of my shopping bag. "Hey, you wanna see the juicer I bought?"

* * *

**Author's Note 1**. I Wiki'ed it, and Julius Peppers was a well-known collegiate athlete as early as 1998, so it's possible Nick may have heard of him by 2002, when they turn 21. I don't know enough about sports to figure out another alias for Ol' Nick Miller.

**Author's Note 2**: I knew a majority of the stories coming out of this challenge were going to be Nick/Jess related, so I went with a friendship story instead. I tried to fit in as many references to Schmidt and Nick's canon relationship as I could. (I really tried to fit in a Fredo kiss, but I couldn't find an excuse.) I made up quite a bit, obviously, but I at least have canonical references for deciding that Schmidt was born rich ("Bells") and that Nick can be relentless and single-minded when he wants to be ("Neighbors"). I assumed he was a scholarship kid because let's face it, there's no way Walt and Bonnie had a college fund waiting for Nick ("A Father's Love," "Chicago"). I also assumed he was a working student who paid the bills at home because again, Walt and Bonnie. To extend the idea further, my headcanon for Nick's current laziness and lack of ambition comes from being completely exhausted and burnt out from being pulled on all sides since childhood. The juicer's a reference to "TinFinity." I made up Nick's undergrad major because we don't know what it is yet, but he's shown to be good with numbers. Ergo accounting.

**Author's Note 3: **I love BFF origin stories. Does anyone have any prompts for an origin story for Nick and Winston? Or better yet, an actual BFF story all written out and stuff? Please? I will review lavishly, I promise.

**Author's Note 4: ** In case anyone else is in the mood for another BFF origin story, AO3 has a fantastic one about Jess and Cece's friendship called Talisman. That served as my main inspiration for this story, actually.


End file.
